


Shotgun

by sariane



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Don't Touch Lola, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, cockblocking by an inanimate object
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariane/pseuds/sariane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil gets a new car.</p><p>Clint, well, he just wants to get laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shotgun

**Author's Note:**

> Guess I'm jumping on the Lola bandwagon! I had a lot of fun writing this one.
> 
> I am indebted to [izzyv1o](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzyv1o/pseuds/Izzyv1o) for all of her help!
> 
> Warnings:  
> \- Mild canon-typical violence  
> \- Alcohol

"I think he likes the car more than me," Clint moans to Natasha with his head resting on the table.

"There, there," she says, not at all soothingly, reaching forward to pat the top of his head.

He hates her. He hates her smug look, and this trashy bar, and the crappy beer in his hand, and Phil's goddamn car.

"This is serious," he looks up at her, resting his chin on the sticky, disgusting table and regretting all of the life choices that brought him to this moment. "He's withholding _sex._ "

Natasha doesn't buy it for a moment.

"Uh huh," she nods, taking a sip of her beer. "Because he's having a fling with the car. Tell me more about their torrid love affair," she says flatly.

Clint tries to make a hissing noise from between his teeth, but it comes out as more of a pathetic gurgle. He whines into the table, "She's shiny, and red, and he talks to her, I swear."

"So he's making you sleep on the couch when you insult her?" Natasha raises an eyebrow without a shred of sympathy.

"Well," Clint swallows, tongue heavy with alcohol. "No, not exactly, but --"

"You ready to go?" Phil asks, appearing out of fucking _nowhere_ and making Clint jump a foot in the air. Natasha chuckles in amusement.

"Jesus, Coulson," he mutters. "The hell did you come from?"

"I think it's time to go home," Phil says, biting back a smile. "You're drunk."

"M'not," Clint shakes his head and tries to stand up, but the floor at this place is just as trashy as the rest of it and tips dangerously when he attempts to walk over it. He hears Phil swallow a chuckle as he sways to the side.

"Good luck with that," Natasha laughs. She sends Clint a tiny wave as Phil half-carries him out of the bar, purposefully ignoring the hand that keeps wandering towards his ass.

"Come on, get in," Phil sighs as Clint's shoes skid on the pavement like a little kid’s, feet from the car door. He pushes Clint forward, but he doesn’t let up.

"Never," Clint protests.

Phil all but picks him up and forces him into the passenger seat (careful not to hit his head on the convertible top), buckles the seatbelt around him, and rounds the car to the driver's side. Clint glares at the dashboard, imagining it growing a mouth just to smirk at him.

"If you vomit, I will make you regret your very existence," Phil says as he turns the keys in the ignition. Clint gulps.

*

"-- And she's been beautifully restored, just look at the trim. The suspension is great, I gotta -- what are you doing?"

Clint has Phil backed up against the hood of his car in their tiny garage, a leg between his and his mouth on Phil's neck. He thinks it's rather obvious, what he's doing.

"Don't you wanna _break it in_?" he purrs in Phil's ear, sending a shiver down Phil's spine. He moves forward an inch to ghost his tongue over Phil's ear. Phil rests his hands on Clint's biceps, but he doesn't push him away. He tilts his head to the side.

" _Her_ ," Phil sighs, breaking Clint out of his fantasy for a moment. "Break _her_ in."

Clint licks his lips and pulls back to stare at Phil in disbelief.

"Um," he says, feeling a distinct drop in the mood. "Her?"

"Yes," Phil replies. He drops his hands and pats the red paint lovingly. "I told you. _She_ has a name."

*

"I swear, Barton, if you scratch the paint, I will --"

"No sex for a week, I gotcha," Clint replies through his comm as he speeds around a deserted corner in the red Corvette, nervously missing some scattered trash cans on the corner.

" _Only_ a week?" comes Coulson's dry reply, but Clint can read the concern in his voice.

Tires squeal as the car on his tail rounds the corner behind him, sending the trash cans flying.

"Don't worry, sir, I got this," Clint says with a smile, pulling out his gun to aim out the window and blow the ties of his tail. He's not at his best with a gun, though, especially from a moving car, so he misses one tire and hits the headlight, sending glass spraying across the alleyway. Clint accelerates as he watches the car behind him spin out of control, skidding into the curb and flipping over onto its side. It rolls dangerously towards him, almost in slow motion.

Clint doesn't need Coulson's frantic voice in his ear to tell him he's seconds away from being crushed.

Clint spies a rackety old fire escape ahead. It's covered in caution tape and attached to the building adjacent to the road with one lone rusty support. Three shots from his gun and it breaks and begins to tip, crashing towards the street, feet from Clint's racing car.

"Barton!" Coulson yells through his comm, but Clint just floors it and speeds through, narrowly missing the falling fire escape as it smashes into the out-of-control car behind him.

Clint hits the breaks and skids to a stop towards the three-way intersection at the end of the alleyway and sets the car in park, a smile on his face.

Coulson's standing in front of the warehouse, an armored briefcase in his hand and half a dozen unconscious guards at his feet. Clint slides out of the driver’s seat and leans against the car with his arms crossed, smirking like it’s his job.

"On a scale of one to ten, how hot are you for me right now, sir?" he asks.

Coulson steps past him to slide into the driver's seat and throws the briefcase into the passenger seat. He waits until Clint's in the car, the briefcase shoved under his feet, before he answers.

With a smile, Coulson says, "Eleven," and takes off down the empty street.

 *

Clint moves his cell phone from one ear to the other, pinching it with his shoulder to hold it as he speaks.

"I think I've got this down," he says over the music pumping through the radio. "It's shining so bright I can see my face in it."

He rubs the rag a little harder against the red paint, just to be sure.

"You are so pathetic," Natasha sighs through the phone. "You're cleaning a car just to get laid." Clint can almost feel the disdain in her voice.

"You're just jealous," he smirks.

"Really, Barton? Jealous of you and five years of watching you two pine over each other? Jealous of a man who has to compete with a car for --"

Clint freezes as he hears the front door slam shut. He turns to stare through the door that connects the garage to the house, but he doesn’t see Phil there yet.

"Shit. Phil's home. Gotta go," he hisses into the phone.

"Call me when your plan ends in tears. I could use a good laugh," Natasha says smugly. He hangs up on her and shoves his phone into the pocket of his too-tight blue jeans.

Clint pulls off his purple hoodie and throws it onto one of the ill-used bicycles in the corner of the garage, revealing his tight white t-shirt, stained with grease and perfectly fitted over his muscles.

He keeps an eye on the door, waiting for Phil to follow the sounds of the radio into the garage. He takes his sweet time, so Clint's contemplating trying a different strategy when Phil finally walks through the door.

"Clint?" he calls.

 _Shit_ , Clint thinks, turning and bending over Phil's red car to pretend to polish a particularly tough spot, trying to look casual and not at all like he knows how well this angle shows of his -- _ahem_ \-- assets.

"Clint?" Phil says again. Clint makes a show of turning around in surprise.

"Oh, hey," Clint says casually, smiling when he sees genuine shock on Phil's face. "I, uh, cleaned your car for you."

Phil just gapes at him.

"You cleaned my car," Phil repeats in a strange voice Clint doesn't know whether to fear or desire. Phil takes a step closer to Clint (and the car). "You _waxed_ my car," he says in the same voice.

Suddenly, Clint isn't sure if he's about to be laid or murdered.

"Just for you," Clint tries in his most seductive voice. Except Phil's eyes are kind of boggling and freaking him out, so it's more like his sixth most seductive voice.

Phil takes another step closer and Clint smiles and opens his arms to meet him. Obliviously, Phil steps around him and goes for the car. _Fuck._

"You used my usual wax?" Phil asks, still sounding kind of dazed.

"Uh, yeah," Clint answers, feeling a little put out. "All the stuff you keep on the bottom shelf. I did what you always do." Clint lets his hands fall limply to his sides as he steps up to the car beside Phil. _Natasha's going to love this,_ he thinks to himself.

"Thank you," Phil says suddenly, turning to throw his arms around Clint and pull him flush against his body.

Before Clint realizes what's happened, Phil is kissing him. He's surprised for a moment, but then he smiles, lets Phil press him against the car, and tugs Phil closer with his tie.

*

"What is it?" Clint sighs as Phil pulls him from his seat at the kitchen table. He hasn't seen Phil this excited since he found that vintage print of an old Captain America War Bond Tour poster.

"I told you, it's a surprise," Phil says, pulling Clint away from his supersized cup of coffee and to something undoubtedly old, dusty, and vintage.

"Whoa," Clint says when Phil finally pulls him out of the house. "It's a car."

And it's a nice car, too. Clint's never really had the money for nice cars before, but this one -- oh, if he could choose a car for Phil, it would be this one. It meets his standards on the exterior, at least; it's a bright, cherry red that's absolutely glowing, the body is gorgeous from the headlights to the trim, and he can't wait to see how it purrs when Phil drives it.

“A 1962 Chevy Corvette C1,” Phil says proudly.

“Cool.” Clint throws an arm around Phil's waist and he positively _grins_ at Clint, his rare, honest smile that Clint wishes he could see more often.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Phil asks.

"Yeah," Clint has to agree. "It's gorgeous."

Phil leans over to kiss him on the cheek in a moment of pure joy.

"Her name is Lola."


End file.
